A Little Trivia for You
by foreverandeveranonymous
Summary: Wheatley reveals an interesting story that might just break Chell's silence and prove to her that he was not a moron for making these certain choices.
1. The Tale

**To start off, I'd like to mention that I may continue this story, but it depends on the reviews I receive. This is my first fic, so I made sure to keep it simple and down to point while the muse hit me. This will be the prologue if I do happen to continue it.  
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** Feel free to comment as you please, not going to be begging for reviews. Not saying that I wouldn't like it though. :)**

**Other than these few things, have fun reading. :)**

**(P.S., purposefully run-ons because of Wheatley's speech)  
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My name was one Luke. That little mishap of a fact I am 'some-crazy-way-how' granted access to. I know, surprising to me, too. My parents, come to think of it, might have been big, tremendous fanatics of that... that one series of films, the one with the... ah, never mind. That probably has been ages ago, and, not to mention, has no relation to the other... _thoughts_ whatsoever, other than the fact that my name was, indeed, once Luke. Just a tidbit of interesting trivia really, if you're into that sort of thing. On with the actual tragedy then.

I honestly don't know what brought this up, how I am actually allowed to even have a teeny hint of it just drifting about freely about in my primary storage. Could just be a volatile thing actually, will go when I finally decide to switch into hibernation again. Let's hope not, or at least I hope not. I don't think those men could have ever have been that sadistic to even a Frankenstein sort of creature like me; ...Yeah, come to think of it, I've never experienced this much actual 'thought' in a long time. Maybe they were that cruel.

Now, I'm not saying that these... gah, _memories_ are something I want to be allowed access to. No, not that all! Because those few minutes ago, when I was like, 'Hey! Something shiny new! Let's go right on in and check it out!' I found a few of them that would honestly leave me, well... quivering if I had the innate ability and anatomy to do so. Actually, my shell might have shook. Just a little. Okay, okay, _a lot._ Heck, I was so afraid to even learn my name was _not_ Wheatley like they told me but Luke.

What did I find in there, you're asking? Well, a few of those trivial things, fun little tidbits. Not quite as scary if I just block all the connections to them entirely. But it doesn't work that way, I've found. Memories, funny things they are. Stubborn actually. No... annoyingly,_ painfully_ stubborn. Yeah, I think painful is more fitting um... adverb for them, yes. In all honesty, I don't see how you put up with them if they're non-volatile, you apparently strong and... _unbelievably_ smart human, you. I'm sorry that took a while to get out there, love, I certainly didn't mean it as an insult. It's just hard to find words to describe you and even worse at a time like this.

According to those tiny pieces of data... I was once like you. Maybe not in the unmistakably 'noble' category like you, but the humanity was at least there. No, no! That's not the shocking part, either! I breathed, had one of those thumping things in the chest, had a _concept_ of balance whenever I was, oh, you're not going to believe this, the actual owner of a pair of legs! Walking and running, oh, must have felt _free_, right? Well, when I mentioned 'shocking', I didn't quite mean those things either... Again, those are just tiny, little tidbits of trivia for you compared to what I'm about to reveal.

Now, the real appalling thing about this human named Luke was that he once had been in love. _Had_ a love, really. The story was like a wee fairytale when I was... _remembering_... the smaller details of it. The man named Luke shared everything with her, had given her these big expensive things of jewelry (why do you females get so excited over rocks, anyway...?), had lived together in this comfortable looking... _home_, he usually gifted her flowers on Fridays... and she had gifted him back with nothing other than herself. To shorten it down, just in case you're not fond of cheesy things... He was quite smitten, this Luke was. They had to part separate ways each morning, of course. Jobs. His packing and stock and her's desk work.

I'm sure you don't need all the little details, I'd think you'd get bored of them after a while... They were your average couple, if that helps. The flower gifting thing I mentioned earlier, the important part of this 'fairytale' of a story is that it gets interesting on one of Friday nights. He left for work earlier than she and came home sooner, where he would wait two hours for her to, heh, approximately arrive at 8PM. Just kind of odd that I remember _that_ part, but... Ah, never mind, I'll try to stay focused for you. In truth... I sort of want to remember these things now, so you might just happen to speak up one day and be like, "Hey, remember when Luke" just in case they do happen to be... _volatile_. You'll do that for me, won't you?

...Right. On with the story. Ha, you look kind of eager for the rest. Well, here we go.

Luke had waited until nine. Before long, ten had passed. And before long... the poor bloke had no other choice but to go to bed alone. No worries, right? She might just be working really hard overtime or something, after all, they always needed the cash. It was selfish of him to think in that way, wasn't it? Because by morning... god... by morning that poor bloke Luke still awoke to an empty bed.

Hey, I'm probably shaking now, aren't I? Just a little... yeah. Poor Luke.

...Poor Luke got to her workplace. And what was this workplace you ask? Well, well! None other than... none other than the_ hell_ we are now, only _circa 1990_. You interested in knowing _why_ she had never made it home from Aperture that night? Well, they wouldn't tell poor, old Luke, no; It was _confidential_, for _Aperture employees only_. He raised hell, you can bet that poor bloke did. So much hell... that... that he had to be redirected to several offices... then eventually had to be held back. Oh, this part... it's been hazy from the start. Like it's been purposefully damaged.

A young man, head honcho at the time, whatever you want to call the bastard, I remember him spitting out, "I thought she said she had no relations when she came here? Goddamn that woman! Take him outside my goddamn office! You know what to do with him. We don't need another report on us. ...Woe be to us Johnson. You left the company here at the wrong time."

I do remember one of the men dragging me by mentioning that, "I was a _moron_ for even stepping foot this _deep_ in here."

And then god knows what else happened to poor Luke, because he finally, somehow miraculously became _me_. Added a funny, god-awful accent for the sole purpose laughs, then little _Wheatley_, the most idiotic, yet necessary innovation of the time, was brought to life. A literal bampot finally personified to be an annoying _tumor_ not just to her, but to any foreman or... _man_ that spent even five minutes around him. And the worst part, love? The worst part is that he never had the chance to find her. Probably lobotomized poor Luke before he get a coherent word out throat, he was so angry. No matter because she didn't _care_ to mention that she had relations when she signed up for the job, right? Why would Luke want to have her back, why would he go so far as to even care iright now/i and continue his search for her? Better yet, is he... am_ I_?

The answer's simple, really. It's love. You there, you're probably familiar with the emotion. They haven't brain-warped you, I know better than that. You're still the same old smart, compassi -

Right... okay... I'll just come out with it. The mystery girl, the one that Luke loved so dearly... whom sacrificed his whole, entire humanity in hopes of gallantly saving; Her name was Mi_chell_e.

She was you.


	2. The Grave

**And so I introduce you to Chapter 2! Give a big thanks to the reviewers from Chapter 1 for making this one possible! I personally would like to thank them for the wonderful words of inspiration, they're what finally fueled me. Thank you so much guys!**

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It had been over a year. A year since she was allotted that freedom; The freedom of knowing that she was not bound to that shifty penitentiary anymore, the prison constantly reverberating with that cursed, degrading criticism of _her_. Wind had then whipped and tossed about her flushed cheeks without barrier, unadulterated; Warming rays had filtered through the infinite depth of clear, sunset atmosphere and was bound to light a path no matter which direction the destination lay; Moist earth had sunk between her toes and padded her feet more comfortably than any factory-produced boot could. Hell, the air was _breathable_ alone; Not the foul, tainted aroma of aged dust, decaying earth, and leftover poisons. These were just a few of the many products mother nature birthed that made outside a lively, tangible paradise. The _outside_ that she had easily missed but when reintroduced, immediately relished.

To think, that had only been months ago since she was trekking the mucky roadside, days old bile coating her lip and a sheet of sticky sweat combined. Nick after slash painted her body then, her hair a frazzled, unkempt mop pinned back with frayed wire. Fatigue and nausea had both invaded her bearing, giving her an unfortunate slump of the shoulders. Overall, her exterior screamed that of an escapee more or less, and the orange Aperture attire was not helping her.

The bulky cube must have been the eye-catcher to the man, and he had thankfully stopped and loaded her onto his truck after commenting how she looked like hell and apologizing quickly after. The companion cube had been strapped securely on her back with an aged rope she had found hanging at the back of the 'exit' shed. It had to have been a heaven-sent gift, honestly, finding that rope. In her eyes at least, she saw it as that. Why, when she was so eager to relieve herself of anything and everything branded Aperture? Chell could have easily claimed she wanted the company, needed a companion out in the solitaire, grain-infested open she was cast to. In all honesty, she wished that that _were_ the case. She knew better.

Regardless, there was a roar from the truck's engine then it began it's decent across the muddy trail for eleven miles or so. Chell was very thankful that he just happened to be visiting family simultaneous to her release, or else she would have been stuck searching for the community on foot. She was thankful that the old man had heard of the rotted town, thankful that he had _lived_ there... thankful that she had been released into an area of upper Michigan. It worked out so well, come to think of it. The old man had _understood_ her situation, even went so far as to don the facility with a _name_, and the correct name at that. It seemed so _planned_, yet she had had other things troubling her mind at the time, and knew these oddly timed happenings would be revealed to her with time. And sure enough, they did.

The old man's name is Bruce Applegate. His was somewhere around the peak of seventy to seventy two, at least he thought. He said he had lost track of days and months years ago, but whenever he looked in the mirror, he saw just a "handsomely wrinkled man", then smiled at the seemingly unfortunate fact. That was one of the traits Chell appreciated about Bruce: He was always optimistic, no matter the situation... even if it had him staring back at aged pictures of him and long-gone family. Bruce would always point above and say that they would be there with open arms, so why should he grieve? "They are more than likely having a grander time up there anyways." Chell, afraid that it might upset the old man (and afraid to see his smile dim) never bothered to ask what happened to the woman and his son. Honestly, she _rarely_ spoke, even though she knew he was of good heart. There was nothing she wished to discuss, and she surely did not want to bring up the subject of 'Aperture'. The old man let her lodge with him since.

It was normal to see the two venture from their apartment space for a walk around the dreary commune, and visits to the other neighboring homes were not uncommon; It was a 'tightly-knit' sort of community. Each neighbor kept a watch on the six of another, and friends were easily made. Although it had been the only portion of humanity that she had been introduced to since her release, it had been the kindest and most neutral to Chell. They would not hurt a fly, let alone an outsider like her, so it made her wonder why they were reduced to dwell in filth.

If it was not for the hospitality alone, this place could have easily been overlooked as a dump. If it had been a country, it would certainly be considered a third-world one. Whatever access they had to clean water or decent food supplies had been stripped away, for a start. Due to several nearby, natural canals of water, the area was constantly being flooded, and along with the mostly stormy weather, this provided the source for the polluted water. As for food, any brand of meat was out of the question and had apparently been for several years. There were very few crops that would survive in the mucky environment and many of the residents, if they owned their own gardens, tried to amend this with sand from the rivers or grew their swede elsewhere. Most ideal, Chell had been told by Bruce, were the fields that he had found her by. Wheat still remained their staple crop, and the base for most of their meals. Their tiny hamlet was an outcast to the rest of the world, and sometimes Chell even wondered if the people knew that there were millions of other places out there, with a possibility of better living conditions and more varieties of delectables. Then again, she had been kept away from society for so long, that maybe Bruce was right. It was better to stay woven together and planted than to travel and be disappointed. As he told her this, though, Chell could see just a tiny glimmer of fear wash over his countenance, right before he peered up and flashed her the same comforting smile.

Now, the inhabitants were not entirely ill-fated. Like Bruce, many had kin living a few miles out, near staples of old times. This included Bruce's brother's family, whom had an old general store and access to fresher gasoline. At least they would not have to be walking the eleven miles and back to transport their food. As said before, they relied heavily on each other, so it had reinforced bonds in a way that no other commune could. That was the major aspect to it; There was always one there to repair a home, one there to teach, one there to gather, etc. and it was always free of charge.

It had been on one of these particular walks that Bruce decided to bring up the subject. They were traveling along their typical path, around the cul-de-sac of front porches and up the mile long route to the 'graveyard'. To be appropriate, the locals had long ago cleared this selection of small area because it had been elevated, therefore more dry than most of the terrain. The markers that adorned the necropolis were always splinters of wood and, if lucky, the name and a tragic epitaph was carved in honor of the deceased. Of all the plots woven within the area, this one had a distinct, unnatural air wavering about. Not to mention that, on days when the sun decided to peek behind the day-old puffs of grey raincloud, it had turned its bright head in the direction of the cemetery and embraced it in its warming, uplifting light. Alas, they were not blessed with one of those sunny days on this particular walk but the family of Cumulonimbus clouds gathering above did not stop them in their tracks.

Bruce and Chell were ready to make their turnabout at the end of the bone-yard and back towards the town before Bruce had ceased his steps. He observed the woman standing beside of him, her oddly calm, brightened visage. Chell's mood had certainly improved since a year ago, and the old man practically beamed at this fact. It was rather nice to see his 'daughter' (self-proclaimed) enjoying his company with a full-on smile. Because of that cheery spirit, he had to lower his head and avert his gaze from hers before he continued on.

He settled himself on a moistened bench that sat outside of the twisted wrought iron fence surrounding the cemetery, then patted the empty section next to him. Without hesitation, Chell had accepted his invitation. His distant gaze, though, received a questioning gaze from the woman. It suddenly turned into a concerned one.

"Are you feeling okay?" Chell asked gently, resting a hand upon his back. She was aware that he had those coughing spells, a serious case of asthma being the most likely culprit, and it was times like these before they were unexpectedly triggered.

"I'm fine, my dear," Bruce replied. "Just thinking back on a few things."

The old man then rested his elbow on the arched back of the bench, taking a quick peek over his shoulder at the bone-yard. Chell could clearly see that the smile, Bruce's grand trademark, had faded. She began to rub his back for comfort. "What's on your mind?"

The old man's attention was immediately drawn back to her, his dark, kind eyes meeting hers. No matter his mood, those eyes always glimmered with a sincerity and benevolence that was rare to see in most, and it broke Chell's heart to see the owner of such a pair of eyes struck down by something so simple as a painful memory.

The old man would offer her the faintest of smiles, just long enough to assure her that he was alright. Actually, he sighed rather pleasantly, putting the back of the bench to good use as a recliner. Chell was quick to remove her hand and rest it in her lap. "I'd have to tell you sooner or later," he began, his voice as grace as she could ever remember it being. "I think your strong enough for it now."

Chell tilted her head to one side, knitting her brows at him. Without the use of words, Bruce could tell that she was curious as to what ailed him; In the first weeks of knowing the young woman, she had been stubbornly tacit, so Bruce had finally learned to study her expressions day by day and, in his mind, replace them with a few descriptive words. This one was precisely an inquisitive look.

"I can see you're curious now. Might as well start off with the story of this town, since I don't think I've told you before." His hands folded in his lap as he contemplated the next word. Bruce turned his head away from her, to the open of grassy plot that lie ahead of them, evidently in deep thought.

"The people that live here now, and the unlucky souls that lived here before," he pointed backwards, hinting towards the buried, "as you might of guessed, we were well aware of that company down the road named Aperture, and we knew about that tiny shed and what it lead to. I think I've mentioned the name to you several times before, come to think about it." The old man nodded at her and she nodded back, confirming it. Chell had no other choice but to lean forward, resting her elbows on her knees. The story had already become an intriguing piece, despite the fact that only a few sentences had been orally spewed forth. By the way Bruce was hesitating with his words, she could already piece together that it was going to answer most of her, well, unexpressed questions.

Bruce continued on. "Well, girl, we all used to work at that place at one point in time. Ms. Iverson, old Simon Bowen, Judy and her husband Roy, Anthony, Natasha... all of us, all of the seventy or eighty that live here was an employee. This _was_ a neighborhood, and, to tell you the truth, it hasn't changed in the thirty some years since that _thing_ was activated. The setting, at least. Before then, though, that is where I need to explain a few things.

"This commune was and still isn't part of the public. It has always been a part of Aperture, and before the death of Johnson in late 80s... didn't even _exist_. It was during the 90s that the company began to go haywire, when they had a new CEO running the place. Arthur Davis was his name. And that's when things began to change, and, in all honestly, I'm glad that the damned idiot had to suffer the through the neurotoxin. Something had to put an end to a sadistic mind like his.

"Each day we worked under the watchful eye of him, the watchful eyes of one of his special hired hands, or under the cold eye of a camera. And each day, the oppression grew _worse_ and _worse_ without us even knowing until eventually we were all hand forced by these men and women to come here.

"I should probably fill you in on _what_ exactly this place was made for. A prison for disobedient workers seems the most fitting although... I guess we are equal to the Holocaust, but solely because _we_ did nothing wrong, like them. We were the innocent ones. But I can't help but feel like _we're_ the idiots for ever working under the man. To explain further... I'll bring up the topic of my son, the eight year old boy you saw in family portrait. By 1998 though, my boy John had reached the age of thirteen. Since I had filled out several contracts and applications to be employed, they had my information. John was their subject of interest, and, although I had worked desk jobs there for over ten years, I was stripped of that job to come here. And because... well, because I was a relative of my John. If you ever wondered what happened to the families of test subjects... test subjects being... kids or otherwise that were forced to do so, this is what happened to them. To this day, I don't what happened to my son... but Aperture... no _Davis_ owes me my wife's life..."

The old man's voice cracked and he closed his eyes, messaging them with thumb and index finger. Of all things, Chell hoped that she had not caused Bruce to cry. Anything but that. To her surprise, though, when the man had the courage to open them back up, there was no trace of tears. Not even the rims of his eyes were irritated. He gazed at her, awaiting a response whether it be vocal or visual. When none came, he responded, "You're still in Aperture, my doll. You've just found more of us."

There really was no need to say it. Chell had pieced that together during the climax of his story. Was she bothered by this fact? In a way, it annoyed her that the A.I. had, overall, outsmarted her again but that was not what bothered her the most. That maddening, Bristolian accent flooded into her mind, breathing life back to the heartrending tale of the Moron and his Love.

**_Just in case they are volatile..._**

"Bruce, you mentioned that this was where relatives of test subjects were sent. Apparently, you _knew_ I was a test subject-"

"Your condition gave it away," he nodded.

"That's not what I'm concerned about. There was this... man, he-"

"That's why I brought you to the cemetery, doll. Take a look at the closest grave behind us and I'll explain."

Chell didn't falter. She shifted in her seat, to wear she was looking behind the bench and beyond the fence, at the first grave that came into sight. It was several feet away, a splintered wooden cross resembling the majority of them, only this one had been adorned with a rusted silver chain around the neck. The chain held onto another piece of jewelry loosely, a plain golden band. The engraving in the rotting wood had been traced thick with a black ink or marker, making the words clearly decipherable from the distance despite the crude and bulky penmenship.

**Michelle L. S. Wheatley**

"That was the only room he had to carve into the marker, so he gave up her engagement band and his chain instead. Of course, the graves empty, seeing as..." Bruce had no need to say it, but it recovered her attention. Chell now gaped at the old man with a hefty mixture of disbelief and fear twisting her visage. The pompous little metal ball had been right all along when he had told her that story. He was nothing but a storage unit for the mind of... of her fiancee.

"His name was Luke, wasn't it?" Chell asked, her voice barely reaching beyond the recognition of a whisper.

Old man Bruce solemnly nodded, reaching out a withered, quivering hand that much resembled a hide of wrinkled leather. He gathered one of Chell's hands within his own and she did not object. The man did what he had to do, and she appreciated it greatly that he had the heart to tell her, then comfort her afterwards. Only, something cold and metal slipped into her palm whenever he made the contact, and he smiled at her softly afterwards, patting the top of her hand. It was a key.

Bruce heaved himself up from the bench with a satiated grunt of relief and tugged Chell along with him.

"It'll open the attic upstairs," he began. "I thought I'd let you know that that Luke boy of yours, he used to house up there a couple of years ago. Don't take any offense in this, my girl, but I'm not sure how much Aperture has... 'brainwashed' you. If they have at all. I'm thankful that you recognized him as your fiancee. It... well, it would have made him _happy_, if he was with us right now. Overjoyed. There wasn't a day I didn't go without hearing about you from him, Michelle. And there wasn't a day that didn't pass that he said he was going to find you. We all loved him, but we also _knew_ their wasn't a chance in hell of that happening. Pessimists, I guess we were. It takes a good-hearted man to have that sort of dedication, I'm telling you. I would have liked to see you all reunited, I really would have. Breaks my heart in a way."

Chell bit her tongue, clenched her teeth. It was believable. The idiot's story now had a new light to it, the plot holes were filled. Enough for her, anyway. To think that she had the heart to laugh it off, the entire story. Wheatley... he even joined in with the humor, though he knew that he was being one hundred percent sincere. And Wheatley never corrected her or tried prove his side of the argument. Perhaps it seeing her eyes gleam at the humorous, thoroughly _impossible_ tale or watching the corner of her mouth curl into a joyful grin that made him join along with her. The dimples, maybe it was the dimples or the laugh lines that would appear when she smiled. He was just glad that he had brightened her otherwise solemn, blank mood. Whatever memory she _did_ loose on account of the company... _goddamn_ them, those inhuman, sadistic bastards. Anger brewed and bubbled inside of her, and Bruce must have caught on to it eventually.

"Calm down, Michelle. Let's have a walk back to home, okay? There a few things of his in the attic that I think you should see."


	3. The Page

**I would like to give a very special thank**** to _SimStars _for pointing out mistakes in previous chapters and for being a very awesome reviewer. Thank you so very much, _Sims!_**_  
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_Dust_, that appeared to be the entire makeup of the dull, tiny room. Once Chell had entered this musty interior, she was attacked by a large portion of particles, and they hugged and tugged at her throat until she surrendered with a fit of coughs. Unkempt, that was surely her first impression of the area. Unkempt for years at a time, probably. Bruce must not had dared land a finger on the place ever since _he_ had last touched it, because of the 'sentimental' values that the old man upheld pertaining to Luke's absence. It was a humanly gesture of respect for the 'dead' really, and she could not blame Bruce for this. Chell herself felt like she was crossing into totally foreign, restricted territory that the deceased still managed to inhabit. It was like taking a heedless stroll over a grave.

This caution, however, was not anywhere close to sedating Chell's curiosity. Ever since the story of Luke had departed old Bruce's lips, the young woman anticipated the supposed 'treasure' that Luke Wheatley had left behind. More so, she desired to solve the enigma behind such a man, her _fiancée_. Bruce had assured Chell that his belongings would explain more than he ever could, and Chell was holding him to that promise.

Only one window bedecked the room, but not a great deal of light passed through the blemished glass. It was no loss, really; There was not much sun that danced about the area outside of the window in the first place, and the rainstorm brewing and thundering outside just happened to darken the room more than the norm would. Chell had a flashlight equipped with her before she even ascended the the ladder into the attic, Bruce having warned her beforehand that the room lacked any form of electricity by now. She let the artificial light drift over the middle of the room, then twitched her hand ever-so-slightly to uncover the rest.

Aside from the dense blanket of dust she hand so unfortunately encountered earlier, Chell discovered the typical furnishing of the average bedroom. The state the room had been left in was nothing less of unruly, scruffy; Sheets were tossed haphazardly about the floor, along with the leftover cotton and feather innards of a brutally murdered pillow. The bed, of course, had been stripped of these necessary elements and only a dingy mattress and rusting headboard remained. On taking a step further into the mess, Chell noticed that the floor was not just littered with these things alone. Various pencils and pens were scattered in the mess of fluff, half a hundred, maybe. This received a furrowed brow from her and she bent down to her knees at the center of it, veering her eyes upwards this turn. She directed the flashlight over the back corner of the room, uncovering a very basic wooden bookshelf that spanned the height of the floor to middle of the angled ceiling. At the very bottom of this shelf, the same sort of oddity had apparently occurred; The varnished planks of floor were cluttered with a mess as well, only this mess consisted of thin, yellowing leaflets. Gravity had, apparently, worked against one of the shelves lodged in the case's frame and dumped several leather-bound, paperback, and hardback books below, the impact ripping several fragile pages in the process.

The mass of undeciphered documents immediately drew her attention, and she crawled over in front of the pile, abandoning the remains of mutilated bed-ware. Upon first glance of the pages, they appeared to flourish with a variety of different inks yet still managing to have the same style of penmanship. Chell recognized the scrappy print instantly, the pattern had to be directly branched from the rain-blurred words upon that cross. _Her_ cross. Bruce had hinted to her, before she trekked upstairs, that she would know at first glance what this Luke left behind for her. Chell did not have to second guess that this was it; This was the grand treasure that she had been so troubled about.

She could not deny it. Her heart thrashed against her chest, and, although it was mildly, her hands still quavered as she held a thin sheet of the remains before her. She re-angled the flashlight and cast the light over the words so that they were decipherable in the evening dusk that inhabited the room.

~:-:~_  
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_September 6th, 1994_

We buried her today. Bruce said that there was a nice plot left, one next to his son's. He's told me that before, as you probably know. Told me it thousands of times before, but I never listened until today. I guess it was time to do something for her for once, right? I thought so. I would have much preferred to have her memorial here, by the river. And I remember her telling me so many times before how the sound of water kept her calm, or how she missed the outdoors she grew fond of when she was smaller. Yeah, she would have loved to see this woods out here. To see this towering pine above me or feel the sand around from the bank sinking around her feet. And no, no, she wouldn't mind how dark it is now or how the mist seems to always settle densely around this particular site. She wouldn't mind because... well, I hope she wouldn't mind because she'd be right here next to me, in the crook of this boulder.

I know for sure I wouldn't mind.

But look at me, I shouldn't be doing this. My mind is literally screwing with me. I'm making it sound as if she's actually-

She's not _there_. She's not _dead_, I never buried her body... Or at least I hope it hasn't gone that far. The death, I mean. It's Aperture, I know. You know I know. She probably is... well, I don't even have the heart to write it. Figure it out on your own, it's not hard if you know _that_ place and all of its little 'tricks'. And I hope, because, well, because that's all I've got left anymore, is hope. Hope and some documents I uncovered today. Bruce doesn't know and I plan on keeping it that way.

Yeah, I've thrown the blame on my own self before, you don't have to keep criticizing me; I'm going to fix this. Or at least try. I'm _not_ as moronic as they believe I am, I promise I'm not. And I'm not as weak or cowardly as I_ act_ around them.

How exactly did I manage to snoop around today? It wasn't so hard, really. In fact, it didn't take much effort on my part. That Doug man, the one they left me assistant to, he's a nice fellow, really. As you probably already know, we've been chatting a great deal. It seems that he's not really partial to the company's activities and doings, and that surprised me honestly. Said he knew some other people, friends of his, that worked in a department opposite of his, filled him in on what they what minimum information that were allotted to. Of course, he wouldn't tell me at the time, said that he wished he could, but they would practically have his head for it. I knew that I had to keep_ this_ place a secret from him as well, or I'd end up with a similar fate, so there were no hard feelings.

As you can probably calculate, we've been chit-chatting for four weeks or so, ever since I received my new apprenticeship in the Quantum Sector 1B (software agents and production lines were apparently _not_ my cup of tea). He might not have been reluctant enough to reveal the going-ons in Henry's sector, but Doug did_ trust_ me enough to leave his computer unattended during his break, login complete and all. Pure luck, right? I locked his office door and ducked behind the desk.

What did I find? Apparently, all employees that were not forced against their wills to work were allowed access to a variety of different things. Doug had several schedules pulled up for the year. With a little browsing, I discovered exactly _what_ the other sectors, that I was purposefully made ignorant of, were dedicated to. To be blatantly honest, I didn't get far in my snooping. Doug had come back early, and once the key was turned, he had immediately caught me behind his desk, right in the process of uncovering what Henry had dealed in.

It was Artificial Intelligence, just so whoever finds this is aware._ Genetic Lifeform and Disk Operating System_ was in _Trial, ETA: 3 years_, according to the list. Their foremost project.

Doug, a good fellow he is, didn't report it. He just urged me into another chair so he could sit down at his desk and get to work. Well, there was 'work' that after that point honestly; A lot of questions, really. Why I was there, what I was looking for, the likes. He didn't sound angry with me though, just looked at me curiously. I decided to tell him the honest truth. We were _friends_, right? Good, old friends?

After a moment's silence (and me, being the paranoid person that I am, shut the curtain over the window in his office), I told him about Michelle. I told him _my_ story. Tired of the cowardice that I displayed, I expressed it with a straight, sincere face, and signed of with, "If you want to tell _them_, go ahead. I'm not afraid to face them with the truth."

Doug Rattmann, well, he took it well. Actually he was more _surprised_ than anything, perhaps even shocked. So many questions flowed from his mouth that I didn't even have time to ponder over how he felt about it. I knew, though, that he wasn't anywhere close to snitching me out. He found the company to be despicable in the first place, that Henry was dealing in the wrong job, many of these things. Had me wondering why he worked here in the first place then, but I had to save my question for later, because he spent the majority of his work hours getting _answers_ from me. Getting loads of information about Michelle.

It was an hour before work let out for me, before I had to report to Davis to be escorted back here. Doug opened the door to his back office, where I had been finishing up several quantum shaping prongs he had been asked to work on today. I voluntarily fixed them, as Doug said he would be researching a few _things_ in his front office the rest of the day. I followed of course and took the same seat I had earlier, when I had told him my history dealing with Aperture.

These _things_ he was researching, they weren't anything 'Quantum Tunneling' related, it wasn't. When he turned the monitor in view, I literally froze. I couldn't take my eyes off of the screen. He had to honestly bring me back to my senses by tossing a manila folder in my lap.

"Aperture call your Michelle 'Chell', and her last name has been redacted. That's why it took so _damn_ long for me to find her in the database. She's right there, 1498."

The picture displayed on the screen, I could never forget her face. _1498_. They made her into a damn_ test subject_.

Doug said he would help me in anyway he could, that he wouldn't forget the name 'Chell' nor the number 1498. And it's also why today, he finally informed me of a device Henry and his colleagues were in the process of developing. The _Intelligence Dampening Sphere_. Won't be their most _grand_ project, mind; I think the Genetic Lifeform takes the cake for that, but it _will_ be an attachment to it.

Did you know Cave Johnson, apparently the previous CEO of Aperture Laboratories, had an assistant named Caroline, and that he wished her to be in charge after he was gone? Doug informed me of this as well. Said it was necessary to understand _what_ the Genetic Lifeform was and how the Intelligence Dampener would be used with it, and how Dampener would also be produced.

Caroline, who was once a lively and delicate human, _is_ now the Genetic Lifeform. Artificial Intelligence, regarding Johnson's Aperture, is not necessarily 'artificial'.

Dampener, that poor bloke, won't be entirely artificial either. He will be _me_. Doug is sure that if the process can be preformed, then it can be reversed. He's going to be checking in with Henry on this before we try anything.

I'm not afraid of this. Not as long as I can find Michelle and escape with her. Then maybe, just maybe, we can visit a _real_ copse of minty pine tree and share a seat upon a mossy boulder together, overlooking the nature from her childhood that she adores and surely misses.

_Wednesday, Day 1 of plan._

~:-:~_  
_

Chell relaxed her hand, dropping the page back to the pile. She settled the flashlight to the side of her, on the ground where she finally rested herself before the collection of diaries. Not one page she could pick up afterward, already unable to cope with the words that she had just repeatedly ran through.

The _moron_, the unfortunate tale he told, it all had back-up. He had _proof_. She could not deny that that was her _fiancée_, everything about it would speak against any negating claims. Not that she even _desired_ to disagree with the fact. No, not at all. Chell, in fact, had to lean back and use the wall as a much needed supported because of the impact this 'truth' had on her. She cupped her forehead in her hands and messaged her temples roughly with her thumb and her fingers; a process she always used to prevent tearing up, from showing a weakness.

It refused to work this time.


End file.
